All That Jazz
by Carolina Nadeau
Summary: It's 1922, and jazz is still a bit too scandalous for River City's boys' band to play, even with a forward-thinking leader like Harold Hill. Within the privacy of their own home, however, there's nothing to prevent Harold and Marian from exploring all things scandalous and modern...


_This story has been a looong time in coming, as you might have noticed if you follow me as an author, or the fandom in general. I've been working on it slowly since some time in August – a very long time for a fluffy oneshot! But this was actually one of the most challenging fics I've ever written. It was born out of a combination of a little idea that had been floating in my head for a long time, and a lighthearted challenge from the lovely and talented Marianne Greenleaf. I won't spoil it by saying exactly what those ideas were – just know that it is all intended in good fun! ;)  
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_If the truth were known about the origin of the word 'Jazz' it would never be mentioned in polite society. _

Clay Smith, _"Étude"_

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On a Friday night when he and his lovely wife were all alone in their house, the last thing that Harold Hill would have thought he'd been doing was thinking about work, yet here he was, sitting in the music room, looking over the new set of scores that had arrived in the mail today.

Of course, he had only undertaken this task as a way of keeping busy while he waited for Marian to return downstairs and join him. She'd darted off after dinner with an impish smile on her face and an admonition for him not to interrupt her while she retrieved something that she wanted to show him.

Harold had no idea what she was planning, but he was nearly certain that it would be enough to take his mind off work. Truth be told, his mind was scarcely on his work to begin with, and it hardly had been all day, knowing what they had planned for this evening. Now that she had disappeared upstairs to prepare some mysterious surprise – which, on a night like this, must surely be _something_ maddeningly erotic – it was all he could do to keep his focus on other matters while he awaited her.

It didn't help that even the smallest of gestures could be enough to drive him to distraction. No matter how busy they were, there were always tantalizing little moments of passion between them all throughout their day – his hands purposefully lingering at her waist when he helped her slip off her apron after dinner, removing it as delicately and deliberately as if it were a far more intimate garment, or when she leaned her head against his chest for several long moments when she greeted him at the door in the evening. Marian would stay there luxuriating in his scent and his nearness, and he took the opportunity to breathe in the aroma of her hair in return, an intoxicating mixture of lavender soap and something else that was simply _her_, until their children came swarming excitedly around their feet and they had to break apart at last.

And when they _finally _got an opportunity to make love, when neither one of them was too tired, when all of the children were soundly asleep, and they could at last consummate those days and days of pent-up desires, it was unfailingly wonderful – but they still couldn't be too loud, and couldn't risk making love in any place where they couldn't lock the door, so it wasn't always everything that it could have been. For some couples, especially those who had been married for almost ten years, those restrictions might not have mattered in the least, but – _thank God and the universe and every other deity who might be listening_, Harold thought – they certainly mattered to Mr. and Mrs. Hill, and always would. A little inconvenience, a little temporary frustration, was only a reminder of the fact that he had a wife who _wanted _to make passionate love to him, and whom he wanted to the point of distraction in return. And though nights of quiet, secretive lovemaking did not always sate every one of the desires that rushed through his mind whenever he saw her lovely hazel eyes light up with a knowing gleam, or observed the delectable curve of her backside swaying beneath her skirts as she ascended the stairs, their nights of unrestrained passion were even more electric because of all the anticipation that preceded them.

As much as Harold and Marian loved and adored their children, the nights when they were staying over a friend or family member's house were longed for almost as desperately and ardently as their wedding night had been. All of the things that he couldn't do while the kids were around – to make love to her in the most audacious of places, and make her not just moan in pleasure but wail, even scream, loud enough to wake the entire house if there'd been anyone else in it. It was a wonder that he got anything done all day, knowing that he had _that _to look forward to.

Still, for the time being, Harold was content enough to pass the time with his music. He'd actually been excited to finally get a chance to examine the new scores, as he hadn't had much free time between when it had been delivered that afternoon and now – and, though it was still work, he genuinely enjoyed getting to know different pieces and planning out the band's repertoire for each new season.

This time, among the selections that he definitely planned to introduce at upcoming rehearsals, he'd also taken a bit of a risk, ordering some sheet music that he wasn't entirely sure it would be wise to use – though the boys would, no doubt, be excited if they knew he was even considering it.

He'd picked a couple of jazz songs that had been extremely popular in the last year or two – specifically, _The Sheik of Araby _and the _Bugle Call Rag_. It was mainstream, Tin-Pan-Alley-approved jazz, far from anything that would be found in the speakeasies of New Orleans or Chicago, but he could hardly expect the average townsperson to know the difference. Even with the band's great prestige in River City, there were still plenty of people who disapproved of all popular music even when it didn't carry the ignominious label of "jazz".

Certainly, the town was a much more cultured place than it had ever been, and growing moreso every year – but really, what that had always meant was that the River City-ziens were finally accepting of most of the classics, whether that be music, art or literature. When it came to anything modern, their reaction was much as predicted, and they would only approve of the most conservative and nonthreatening of compositions. Jazz, of course, was anything but that.

Ethel Washburn had a subscription to the _Ladies' Home Journal_, and, a few times over the past year or so, Marcellus had shown Harold articles that he'd clipped from the publication after Ethel had finished with it, articles that ranted and raved about the evils of jazz in the most hysterical of tones.

_...Jazz disorganizes all regular laws and order; it stimulates to extreme deeds, to a breaking away from all rules and conventions; it is harmful and dangerous, and its influence is wholly bad..._

_...Those moaning saxophones and the rest of the instruments with their broken, jerky rhythm make a purely sensual appeal. They call out the low and rowdy instinct... _

_...Don Juan never had such a potent instrument of downfall as the ultra dance supplies to every evil-purposed male today. The road to hell is too often paved with jazz steps..._

At the time, Harold and Marcellus had had a good laugh over those ridiculous bloviations, but the sobering fact remained that there were plenty of people right in town who really shared this opinion, and they would be a serious obstacle to his attempts to expand the band's repertoire as new trends in music emerged.

The solution seemed so simple: all he had to do was have the boys play one jazz song, and when the sky didn't come crashing down over River City, surely people would realize that there was nothing to fear from something as harmless as music!

Of course, the band had been _founded_ on moral panic, on convincing mothers and fathers that their sons would stay far, far away from billiard parlors and horse races and dance halls as long as they had such a respectable hobby as playing in a marching band. Ten years on, that particular influence had waned quite a bit, and the boys' band was now a beloved local institution that young boys clamored to join someday nearly as soon as they could speak. But would the parents of his boys really countenance them playing something so controversial? Would Mayor Shinn see this as reason to rescind his still-shaky trust of Harold? The music professor knew that he wanted to take this step eventually – the snappy tempos and syncopated rhythms of these songs would be extremely challenging to master, but he knew that he had a group of boys that were prepared to take it on, and doing so would broaden their skills immensely. He just wasn't certain how soon was too soon.

After a few minutes, Harold found himself absorbed enough in his thoughts that he was no longer consciously thinking about whatever his wife might have been doing upstairs, nor actively expecting her return. As a result, when he finally heard her walk down the hall and into the music room with him, it took him a moment to even look up – and when he saw her leaning coyly against the doorframe, his shock and delight so overwhelmed him that the sheet music actually slipped from his fingers.

Marian had taken nearly twenty minutes to finally come back downstairs, so Harold had already strongly suspected that she'd been getting herself dolled up. He supposed that he'd expected her to be wearing some sort of lingerie, but no, this was an evening dress, and what amazed him about it was that it was more revealing than some of her more conservative nightwear. His lovely librarian looked as though she'd dressed up for a night on the town – just not _this_ particular town.

The shimmering gilded hem of the skirt barely reached her knees, and her arms were entirely bare. With every step she took, the beaded floral designs on the pale green fabric glinted in the warm light of the music room – and, though he was aware that flapper fashions were not intended to emphasize a particularly feminine form, this dress still clung to her curves in the most tantalizing way. In his eyes, it was a _vast_ improvement over the current fashionable silhouette.

Her honey-colored hair was pinned low on the back of her neck but swept over her ears in the waves of a faux bob, a style that she'd taken to wearing now and then even on ordinary days but that seemed to take on a whole new significance in light of her attire. And, to complete the picture, her lips were a bright, brazen red, redder than he'd ever seen them – it wasn't merely rouge, but _lipstick_, he realized as she drew closer. Something else that she could never, ever get away with in public, something else that, for whatever reason, she'd done just for him.

Harold tried not to think about where she might stain his skin with that lipstick tonight. He might lose all control if he envisioned that in too much detail right now.

Certainly he was a man of vivid fantasies, and he'd many times imagined how Marian might look in the most daring of the new fashions. But he'd never expected to actually _see_ her in a dress like this. It was impractical for her to even own it, after all, as she couldn't get away with wearing it outside of their house. On and off, he had toyed with the idea of buying a similar dress for her, but he couldn't help but wonder if there was something selfish about buying his wife a garment that she couldn't wear out, couldn't wear to sleep, couldn't wear for _any_ purpose other than to look lovely for him.

But now she'd done it herself. Without the slightest hint from him, she'd transformed herself into an erotic fantasy, for no reason other than that she'd wanted to – at least, he didn't think there was any other reason.

Marian Paroo Hill, responsible wife and mother of four, who never would have touched a drop of bootleg liquor, who loathed the smell of smoke, who loved peace and quiet and order – tonight, with him, she was a flapper.

The music professor tried to formulate _something _to say in response to this breathtaking vision, but he could only manage to stammer gracelessly, "What – when did you – "

Marian laughed, and the music professor suspected that she was glorying in his speechlessness. "You're not the only one who got a delivery today, dear. I ordered this a few weeks ago – I know it's an indulgent purchase, because I could probably never get away with wearing it in public in River City, but I thought I could get enough use out of it on private occasions in order to justify the luxury."

She took a few strides toward him, spinning around to let her skirt swish and twirl against her calves, and allowing Harold to see for the first time that the dress was cut in a plunging V that revealed nearly her entire porcelain-smooth back. Almost involuntarily, he found himself rising to his feet, his chair sliding out from beneath him with a sharp scraping noise, and for a moment, he actually felt stymied by the presence of the desk in front of him, almost forgetting how to get out from behind it in his haste to take her in his arms.

As abashed as he was by his sudden lack of finesse, Marian was clearly enjoying the obvious success of her plan. "Do you like it?" she inquired as she faced him and planted a hand on her hip, and though her tone was teasing, her words and posture bold, Harold could see that her eyes were glowing with a sort of innocent hopefulness – it somehow made her even more beautiful to him, that Marian would always be Marian even when she was dressed like a movie star. (Though, he had to admit, it was beyond his comprehension how she could harbor the slightest of doubts about how he would react to this display. God, had the woman ever looked in a mirror?)

Now in control of himself just enough to ensure that he stepped _around_ the desk and not over it, he closed the short distance between them to stand by her side. "Darling, I don't think I have the words to express just how much I like it," he assured her, and his hand was actually trembling with desire as he glided his fingers up from her wrist along the soft skin of her bare arm.

A soft, breathy exclamation escaped her, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Well, you usually do well without words."

Harold watched her face intently as he kissed his way up her arm along the path his fingers had traced, watched as her eyes fluttered shut and her beautiful lips parted around gasping little sighs of desire.

"That dress," he whispered against her ear, "was made for dancing, wasn't it? Do you want to dance with me?"

Pulling back, she regarded him with a slightly bemused expression. "Yes – if that's what you want. Is it?"

Leaving one last kiss on her shoulder, the music professor stepped back a little and let his eyes travel up and down her slender form again. "Well, that's what we'd've be doing if you _had_ worn that outfit out in public, right? I just want to recreate the entire experience before we, ah" – he waggled his eyebrows teasingly at her – "reach the end of the sentimental journey."

She laughed, waving a dismissive hand in his direction as he strolled over to look through the records. "Harold Hill, you're ridiculous."

"You know what I mean." He tossed a wink over his shoulder at her.

Impulsively perching herself upon the desk, the librarian watched him with a sly grin. "You mean, before you ravish me?"

"Of course."

After a brief pause, the librarian fired back in a saucy tone: "Or I ravish _you_."

Sitting upon the desk, she was right at the perfect height to wrap her long legs around his waist, and Harold had to fight the powerful urge to walk right back across the room, crush her against him, and slip his hands right under her skirt – but he could also envision all the tiny beads on that dress flying off, scattering around the room, and thought that it would be best to wait for her to ravish him after all.

"We'll see," he teased, thrilled by the prospect that they would both give each other a thorough ravishing tonight, whatever that might entail.

He was still unable to believe his luck – that even after ten years and four children, his wife was so eager and excited to spend a night making love with him, when surely she could have been taking the opportunity to catch up on sleep instead. But when the kids were out of the house, it wasn't the prospect of sleep and relaxation that thrilled her – it was _him_. Harold found it near-impossible to maintain his usual seductive confidence when he was feeling so flattered and grateful, and before he could stop himself, he was again blurting out the first thought that rose to mind. "What gave you the idea to do something like this? I mean, it's not a special occasion – "

"It didn't cost me _that _much," Marian retorted. Her voice grew a little softer and dreamier when she continued, "And I consider every night we spend together like this to be a special occasion, anyway."

Her sweetly honest admission warmed the music professor's heart, and he couldn't help but smile. After he'd found the record he'd been searching for and set it spinning on the Victrola, the music professor strolled over to where she was sitting, taking her hands and helping her down from the desk as the first smooth strains of music filled the room.

"I do too," he confessed as he placed light kisses against her upturned wrists and palms, reveling in the subtle shivers and quickening pulse he could feel beneath his lips. "And I'm so looking forward to celebrating tonight with you."

With a soft giggle, the librarian allowed him to whirl her into his arms, and her skirt flapped and fluttered and shimmered just the way that it was meant to as they moved gracefully together. The music, much like her outfit, would have struck most of the stubborn River City-ziens with abject horror – a slow, sultry jazz tune that was enough to make one believe all of the hysteria over that wicked music that spurred upright citizens to frenzies of sensual madness. It only added to the intimate thrill of their evening to be flouting all of the strictures of propriety even while they were still fully clothed.

And Marian smiled so radiantly when she danced – it was that very expression that he'd fallen in love with ten years ago, Harold thought fondly. The first time he had seen her truly happy was when he'd whirled her in his arms right in the middle of the library, and when he'd danced with her again a few weeks later on the pavilion at Madison Park, the unrestrained joy in her eyes was the sweetest sight he'd ever seen, one that he subconsciously realized that he needed to see every single day for the rest of his life – even if it had taken him a couple hours more to come to terms with that fact. But though his dear little librarian's face glowed in just the same way it had back when they'd first danced together, the sway of her hips – revealed so delectably by her form-hugging dress – spoke of a woman infinitely more comfortable in her own body and who delighted in it as much as he did, her once-unconscious sensuality now entirely conscious and deliberate.

He pulled her even closer until what they were doing could only just barely be considered dancing – though they were swaying slightly in time to the music, they were far more occupied with gazing into one another's eyes to worry much about what their feet were doing.

Delicately brushing the waves of golden hair from her ear, he leaned in close, a torrent of heated words escaping his lips. "You know, I really don't see how you could ever wear this in public. Not because of the way you look, but because the way that _I'd _look at _you_ would be far, far too obvious. And everybody would see that I couldn't wait to get you out of there, but I wouldn't care. I'd do it anyway."

"And I'd let you," she whispered back without hesitation. "After all, I let you even at that club in Des Moines, only a few days after we were married..."

He smiled as he nuzzled her neck. "And the Fireman's Ball that year..."

"Yes - so of _course _I'd let you take me home now." The librarian pulled back to look at him then, her lips slowly turning up into a coy, inviting smile. "But you don't have to, because we're already here."

Harold chuckled softly, his voice catching in his throat as desire stole his breath away. "Good thing, too."

She had placed her hands on his shoulders at first, but at some point they had slid upward into his hair, stroking smoothly through his curls and making him shiver. All at once, looking down at her sweet hazel eyes so full of love and regard and _hunger_, the music professor could no longer maintain even the pretense of dancing, and he pulled her flush against him, kissing her deeply and letting his hands roam all along her familiar, luscious curves. Just as he'd hoped, the kiss was precisely what she'd wanted – Marian let out a whimpering cry against his mouth and pressed her hips desperately against his. Immediately, Harold abandoned the last of his restraint – cupping her backside in his hands and holding her tightly against his body, he guided her to the settee, the two of them stumbling the short distance before tumbling there together without breaking their embrace.

Normally, there would have been no need for thought or words after that – the reality of Marian in his arms, kissing and touching and teasing him all while responding so enthusiastically and beautifully to his own caresses, should have made him unable to focus on anything else in the universe. But even in the midst of his sheer delight, one odd, amusing thought broke sharply through the haze of desire.

With her painted lips parted eagerly against his own, her already short dress hiked up high enough to expose her alabaster thighs, hips undulating against his in time with the languid rhythm of the song that was still playing, his dear little librarian was scandal and sin personified tonight. And even though they were married and in their own home, if anybody had walked in on this scene, they would have beheld the very portrait of a man and women allowing themselves to be swept up in the supposed evils of modern music.

The last thing that Harold wanted to do was interrupt their current activities, and he knew that he could relay this observation to her much later, when they were – at least for the time being – sated. But somehow, he found the words spilling out anyway the next time that they parted briefly for air.

"Oh, darling, do you realize what's going on here?" he murmured, one hand stroking along her exposed back while the other caressed her bare legs. "We're about to prove the worst fears of the alarmists – that jazz leads to shameless, wild, wicked sensuality."

Marian giggled and nestled even closer against his chest, dimples appearing in her rouged and flushed cheeks. "My, is that so? I suppose we should have heeded all those warnings against this terrible, terrible threat. If even the fine, upstanding leader of River City's legendary boys' band is susceptible, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

Laughter rumbled low in his throat. "I'd say it's even _more _shocking that our virtuous and level-headed librarian could fall into this trap. Truly, no one is safe from this menace." He hesitated over what he wanted to say next, fearing that it might be a little too much - but after almost ten years of marriage, it was considerably more difficult to shock her sensibilities, and he loved doing that too much not to try. "But it's really no surprise, is it, that jazz would have such effects on people when even the name itself is risqué?"

A little startled by this seeming non sequitur, Marian pulled back from his embrace to look at him, her nose crinkling charmingly in bafflement.

"The name – _jazz?_ What are you talking about?"

He leaned in close, raising an eyebrow and giving her a conspiratorial grin. "Well, back before 'jazz' was the newest brand of shameless music, I'd only heard it as slang for – well – I'd say 'lovemaking', but that seems a little too sweet for the context. Maybe more like 'taking a tumble between the sheets' – though it seems a little _limiting_ to presume that sheets would be involved..."

The librarian's mouth dropped open as she laughed in scandalized delight. "Is that – is that so? Why, I'd no idea!" she exclaimed. "But why would nobody object to the common use of such a profane word?"

"Maybe they just didn't know." Harold drew in a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair as he tried to remember how to think straight in the midst of his lustful daze – he should have known that his inquisitive wife would have turned this into an entire discussion, even at a moment like this! "It wasn't a terribly _common _term, I admit, and one probably wouldn't hear it if he weren't keeping company with the sort of lowlives with whom the self-appointed guardians of our morality would never dream of associating – at least, the ones who aren't hypocrites. So I guess it's a relatively small amount of us who can make the association."

She raised her eyebrows impishly. "And you've decided to induct me into that questionable group? I'm honored." With a good-natured sigh, she slid off his lap onto the cushion beside him and let her head fall to his shoulder in mock exasperation. "You _do_ realize that I'm going to blush terribly whenever I hear the word 'jazz' from now on?"

At that, the music professor couldn't help but laugh, and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on her nose. "Why, of course. That's exactly why I told you."

Perhaps the only more thing Harold found even more adorable than a blushing Marian was when she blushed in the most surprising and incongruous of circumstances – like right now, when she'd come to him confident, seductive, looking like even more of a knockout than she did on a daily basis, and still became the very picture of lovely innocence the instant she lowered her lashes and color flooded her cheeks. He never had to choose between saucy Marian and blushing Marian, he thought with delight, because she was always a little bit of both.

As aroused as he was, he was now genuinely torn between proceeding to make love to his wife and continuing the delightful thread of conversation he'd discovered. Mere minutes ago, he would have considered it absolute madness to take any course of action in the immediate future other than burying his head in her lap until she screamed his name and then making furious, passionate love to her... but now he thought that perhaps it actually made sense to delay a little before proceeding to the main event.

After all, he certainly couldn't make love to her _in_ that dress, as tempting as the idea was – he wasn't going to run even the slightest risk of harming such an exquisite new garment. Yet it seemed wrong, wasteful even, to remove it so quickly when she'd planned and prepared so much for this moment. She hadn't even worn the outfit for as long as it had taken her to get ready!

Harold also knew that he had it in his power to make her blush a lot more than she currently was, and tonight, her attire and demeanor seemed almost like a challenge, making him want to make her blush in proportion to the bravado she was displaying. And he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.

Thus decided, he grinned rakishly down at her, twirling an errant lock of her hair around his finger. "You know, there are _all kinds _of things people say every day that certain people would use as a lewd euphemism – you'd be blushing all the time if you realized that practically _anything _could have a double meaning."

Her eyes twinkling with curiosity and defiance, Marian fearlessly took the bait he'd laid out for her. "Oh, really? You're exaggerating."

"Am I?" Waggling his eyebrows suggestively again, he brought his lips close to her ear. "If a fella says that he wants his ashes hauled, maybe he's talking about his furnace. Or maybe" – he snapped his fingers – "he's not."

As understanding dawned on her, she laughed, pulling back to level a skeptical gaze at him. "Really? Well, that's quite a way to win a lady's favor!" the librarian declared with a roll of her eyes. "Why would any woman want to make love to a man who thinks of it as a dreadful chore? Maybe if a man wants his ashes hauled, he ought to do it himself." She seemed inordinately pleased with herself for daring to make such a risqué insinuation, but a blush still bloomed in bright pink across her face, much to Harold's satisfaction.

"I know of a few more that sound like chores, as a matter of fact. Having your corn ground... doing some ladies' tailoring..."

"Maybe they think that the less enjoyable they make it sound, the less obvious it'll be what they _really _mean," Marian mused with a smile.

"Would you think it sounded like any more fun if I called it" – he waggled his eyebrows more fiercely than ever – "the _matrimonial polka_?"

With a quick shriek of amazed laughter, she shook her head emphatically, swatting lightly at his shoulder with both hands. "No, I _wouldn't_!" she exclaimed, giggling helplessly. "I find it terribly hard to believe that anybody actually says these things – but I do believe you that you're not making them up, because if you _were_, well, I think you'd strike a little bit closer to home." She giggled again, lips turning up into a sly smile. "You'd tell me that people call it – stamping books or something."

This was an intriguing turn of events indeed – he'd just planned to tease her a little and then move on, but he supposed that he should have expected her to rise to the challenge. Now that she had joined the game, he felt emboldened to push her even further.

"I've never heard _that_ one, but I think that it makes a good deal more sense than most of them," Harold said, tightening his arms around her waist. "But I think you're saying it wrong."

"Teach me, then," she challenged archly. "How _does_ one properly proposition one's partner through metaphor?"

"Let's see. It's more of a – " In order to sell the whole thing better, he dropped his voice several octaves, doing his best approximation of himself as the smooth-talking salesman who'd once made all sorts of indecent offers to the frosty, gorgeous librarian – though none quite _this _egregious. "'Why, Madam Librarian, I'd sure like to stamp _your _books...'" he purred in her ear, making her break down in a fit of laughter.

"That doesn't make sense at all," she groaned.

"Maybe not really – but I think the imagery is a bit more effective than saying that I'd like to do your tailoring."

The words were coming more and more easily to him now that she'd proven receptive to his mischievous little game, and he felt himself growing bolder and showier with every passing moment. "And you haven't forgotten about the other sort of 'close to home' I could hit upon, have you? Remember that your husband is a bandleader – that means that I can lay claim to all of the puns about instruments, which are, of course, some of the most obvious. Everything I could say about fingers... mouths... blowing..."

He paused for a moment, letting that sink in, and when she didn't object but sat awaiting his point with an impudent little smile, he forged ahead. "And I don't _have_ to make anything up, because the jokes already exist." Leaning close to her ear, he chanted a snippet of a bawdy song that he'd heard or read in his teenage years and never quite forgotten. "_I have a flute, which, though 'tis mute, may play a tune to please ye..."_

He'd expected another blushing exclamation from Marian, especially now that he'd crossed the threshold of decency into blatant anatomical euphemism, so he was thoroughly surprised when she reared back to look at him with an expression that was mostly just confused.

"Why a _flute _of all instruments, though?" she asked, eyes narrowing in bemused thought. "A flute is played, well, sideways." She was so earnest in her inquiry that she'd momentarily forgotten to be embarrassed by what they were _really _talking about, and it charmed Harold immensely to hear such startling frankness from his little librarian.

Surprisingly, though, he still had the presence of mind to come up with a witty answer for the question that he hadn't expected – perhaps because the same curiosity had been lurking in his mind as well. "Well, a flute is one of the most ancient musical instruments, and man's probably been looking for things to which he could compare his, er, _credentials_ ever since he discovered that he had them," he reasoned with a wicked grin. "I'll bet that in the Garden of Eden, when Adam had to name every plant and animal in the world, he also came up with at _least _as many names for – "

"You're probably right," she conceded, hastily interrupting him before he had a chance to finish that sentence. "But what about woman – did she have too much sense for that?"

"I'd say it's a combination of too much sense and too many people telling her that she ought never to think about such things," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of acrimony toward the conventions of society that had once had his dear, passionate wife convinced of that same harmful notion. "But that didn't stop the _man_ for coming up with a thousand tawdry names for the parts of her that fascinated him so. Plenty of them ridiculously worshipful, as you might expect coming from a man – Cupid's this, Venus' that. But I think I'm most amused by the sorts of terms that manage to be somehow prudish and vulgar at the same time – like calling it the _venerable monosyllable._"

At first, his wife simply blinked at him in bafflement. "_Mono _– oh. _Oh_." As the realization dawned, Marian smiled nervously and looked rather abashed, and Harold wasn't sure if that was because of the word that had been implied, or because it had taken as long as it did for her to figure it out – but at any rate, she recovered with admirable speed. "Well, I think that if that's one's intention, one ought to simply say it," she declared decisively. "There's no point in dancing around it like that, when one has made it quite unmistakable what one is trying to say!"

"That's precisely what you're doing right now, though, dear," he had to point out. "You've been blushing and squirming and doing your darndest to ensure that I don't say anything _too _obscene..."

Her cheeks were certainly pink, but the librarian stood firm. "Only because we're not making love right this moment. But when we are, I – I find it the most erotic for one to say what one means. The, well, _proper _terminology doesn't sound right at all outside of a discussion of physiology, so unless one desires to leave these matters entirely unspoken – which I long ago learned is impractical and rather dishonest, too – one is left with no choice but to be either a little obscene or wildly overwrought. And I couldn't even imagine you whispering in my ear about Cupid's – Venus' – _whatever_ it might be." She gave a slight shudder, shaking her head in disapproval. "Maybe it's the sort of thing my fictional white knight would have said – but then I can't imagine that he would have been a very exciting lover, anyway! "

The music professor leaned his head on his hand, watching her with immense amusement. "I just can't believe that Marian Paroo Hill is sitting here giving me a rational, measured argument in favor of the use of not only slang, but _obscenities."_

"In the bedroom, or, well, wherever two people happen to be making love, or talking about it, but nowhere else," she reminded him, her tone firm. "That's always been my policy, and it remains so. But the sort of things one says when one makes love – that sort of language is the most evocative if it's just the littlest bit sharp and rough, shocking, even, because that's what lovemaking _is_, and that's part of why it's wonderful. It's not the same thing as perfume and moonlight and kisses on the hand!"

"That's my gal," Harold crowed with a brilliant grin.

Marian gave him a playful roll of her eyes, but continued on regardless. "And there's simply nothing erotic or the least bit appealing in trying to couch these things in poetic metaphors – it only makes them seem ridiculous. Um, I don't suppose you've read _Leaves of Grass_? Walt Whitman?"

He shrugged. "I don't remember it if I have – is that another one that the teenagers snicker over?"

"Yes, and, well, they're not _wrong_ to do so, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Whitman _is_ a wonderful American poet, but – well. You see, he didn't believe in prurience or titillation in literature – he wanted to celebrate the human body and all of its capabilities, including the erotic, as the wholesome, healthy and sacred things that they are. That's a motive that I can agree with wholeheartedly, but then he goes and describes it in terms like – like" – Marian squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and bit back an embarrassed grin, as if it pained her to have to say this – "_man-root._"

If he'd had a moment to think about it, Harold would have tried his best to stop himself from laughing, but he simply couldn't help it. The idea that anybody would _say_ that, that _anybody_ would think it any kind of suitable imagery or description, never mind in a book respectable enough to grace the shelves of Madison Public Library, was almost too absurd to comprehend. In an instant, he had burst out into laughter, slumping forward with his head in his hands and shaking with renewed mirth every time he remembered what she'd just told him – _man-root_? Even the pompous-yet-simpering "manhood" was less gaudy than that!

Though she was giggling as well, Marian still regarded him with an uncertain expression. "Are you laughing at Whitman or at me?"

As he finally began to regain control of himself, the music professor drew in a deep breath and considered her question with a pang of guilt. "Both, a little, if I'm to be truthful," he had to admit. "To hear something like that in _your _voice..."

Thankfully, the librarian appeared much more intrigued than offended by this. "You've heard me say more scandalous things than that," she remarked, her voice dropping to a subtly sensual tone.

Harold's breath caught in his throat as a million vivid, torrid memories came rushing back, all those moments when she abandoned herself to passion and the things she'd dared to suggest, entreat, _beg _for in that language that she'd deemed appropriate for the bedroom and nowhere else – _those _sorts of scandalous things bore no comparison to the silliness that they were currently discussing.

Quickly, he swallowed hard to clear the lump in his throat, hoping that Marian hadn't taken notice of his brief lapse into reverie. "Yes – but as you said before, _those _words can be extremely erotic in the right context. _Especially _coming from a sweet, lovely thing like you." He said it with a bit more fervor than was strictly necessary, and he had to concentrate hard to keep from being overwhelmed by desire once again, especially when she regarded him with a knowing little smile – but somehow, he managed to remember the point he'd been trying to make. "Whereas 'man-root' sounds like something out of one of those books of smutty stories and limericks passed around in secret by high-school boys."

"The exact sort of thing that Walt Whitman claimed to detest!" Marian exclaimed. "But _you _seem awfully familiar with the concept – not that I'm the least bit surprised. Especially after hearing you recite that _interesting _little poem about the flute."

"There was more of it – you're just lucky that I don't remember the rest." He stopped short as another line of the questionable ditty crept into his memory. "Well – I think it ended with something like '_the flute is good that's made of wood, but the _silent _flute's the sweetest._' No, that's not quite it, but close enough." His smile turned a little sheepish then – while his wife's reactions were still terribly amusing to him, he suspected that it must have made him look like a bit of a boor that he remembered these things at all. "I'm afraid that even my marriage to the librarian has yet to replace _all_ of the sophomoric nonsense in my brain with knowledge of a greater literary merit."

She laughed lightly at that assertion, shaking her head. "It's not as if literature is so very different – why, that sort of thing could have come right from the mouth of any of Shakespeare's comedic characters," Marian pointed out. "Even when I was at my least popular in River City, nobody actually suggested that I ought to pull _his _plays from the shelves. Yet this is the poet who gives us '_the beast with two backs_,' or '_thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit...'"_

He was, perhaps, a little overly proud at being able to catch the references she was making so easily. "_Othello _and _Romeo and Juliet_, right?"

"Yes, darling," she confirmed with a small smirk. "It's nice to see that you know your Shakespeare so well – or, at least, the bawdy parts."

"You were the one who recited the lines, my dear – I merely identified the plays. But I can quote as well as you can, Madam Librarian, you'll see." In a swift, dramatic gesture, Harold slumped down on the settee, laying his head in her lap and gazing up at her so he would have the proper vantage point for delivering his next line. "'_Did you think I meant country matters?_' That's _Hamlet_," he announced grandly.

Marian laughed in disbelief, wriggling back until he was out of her lap and his head fell down to the cushions. "I _know _– "

Undeterred, the music professor sat right back up and gave his wife a playful tap on the nose. "_Taming of the Shrew _– '_What, with my tongue in your tail?_'"

In response, she simply raised her eyebrows. "Ah, yes – remember when we read Petruchio and Katharina together? Certainly not nearly as similar to us as Beatrice and Benedick – I appreciate very much that you love me as I am, _un_tamed – but still a couple of witty, hard-headed lovers who could conjure up a wonderful repartee."

Throwing up his hands in resignation, Harold sank back into the cushion with a laugh. "Why, darling, you're not even blushing anymore."

"In addition to ten years of marriage to _you_, I'm a librarian, darling." She set her lips in a charming pout of mock-petulance. "Do you really think that you can shock me with Shakespeare, of all things? You're going to have to try harder if you want to meet me on my own territory. Remember, I've read _Fanny Hill_."

A renewed grin spread across his face – in a moment of overconfidence, she'd practically handed him the very key to making her blush! "Oh, darling, I could _never _forget that little fact."

"And I will never forget to remind you that it was _research_," she retorted.

"That doesn't matter. You still read it." He realized that he sounded like a little boy teasing a pretty girl on the playground – and maybe that wasn't so far off from what he was, after all, except that _this _pretty girl would still kiss the daylights out of him when all was said and done no matter how much he teased.

"Well, it's not like I even read the darn thing word for word – it's a dreadfully dull story, no matter how salacious the subject matter." Her tone was staunchly defensive, as if she felt the need to defend her literary honor.

Harold chuckled, flashing her a wicked grin. "Nobody reads _Fanny Hill_ for the story. And I don't think that your pre-wedding-night research called for much attention to the plot."

"No, I suppose it didn't," she conceded. "But for all of that, it wasn't terribly successful research, anyway." All at once watched his wife's posture grow a little more upright, scarlet-painted lips settling into a prim line, and he realized that she was about to launch into one of her full-on "librarian" speeches – something he'd always quite enjoyed watching, as long as it wasn't directed at him. "I mean, it _was _certainly enlightening regarding the – the mechanics, though it did make the first time sound so very much worse than it ultimately was for me. And it was comforting, to a degree, that the book depicted women desiring and _liking_ such things – but I know enough nowadays to realize that _Fanny Hill _is a distinctly male fantasy, that the author either didn't know or cared very little about what a woman actually enjoys. Truth be told, as an unmarried woman, I found the book rather terrifying! The women always seemed to be in pain of some sort before they could manage to enjoy themselves, the men were focused solely on their own pleasures and were never the least bit gentle or attentive... And there was a curious and exceptionally masculine emphasis on, um" – she winced and blushed in mortification, as if she'd just realized what she was about to say and didn't particularly want to say it – "_size_."

A short burst of startled laughter escaped Harold, though he was quick to stifle it, not wanting Marian to think he was mocking her. But she was just too adorable – dressed in the garb of a fearless, brazen flapper yet unable to hide her sweet and blushing nature as she attempted to discuss a subject that was too indelicate for her to consider even after nearly ten years of marriage.

It had been several years since he'd even looked at that particular book (which was currently hidden, along with the other _interesting_ volumes that were entirely unsuitable for both the public and home library, in a nondescript box on a high shelf in her closet), but, much like with Shakespeare, certain pithy tidbits had stuck in his mind simply because he knew they could be used to scandalize his wife on command, which, of course, happened to be one of his favorite pastimes.

"_Generally speaking, it is in love as it is in war, where the longest weapon carries it,_" he quoted with a gleeful smirk.

At first the librarian looked as if she might actually fall right off the settee, but amused indignancy soon broke through her utter embarrassment, and she held her chin high even as she blushed crimson. His lovely, opinionated wife could never resist an opportunity to speak her mind to him, after all – even if the topic happened to be more than a little indecent.

"If John Cleland really believed that, he would have made an absolutely terrible husband!" she declared, laughing. "Though it certainly explains why the women in his book are in so much pain all of the time..."

He raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Which part explains it – the 'longest' or the 'weapon'?"

Surprisingly, Marian didn't even flinch. "Both, I suppose. Goodness knows that no woman would enjoy a man treating her like his – um, like he was a _weapon_ – "

"Well, no one said it has to be a _violent _thing, necessarily," the music professor interjected, thinking of another euphemism that he'd heard quite often. "I mean, a sword needs a sheath..."

"Oh, really, Harold!" she scolded with a laugh, giving him a good-natured little shove to admonish him for the dreadful metaphor. "But _you've_ read it, so you should know what I mean. Cleland truly does describe every conjugal act as an act of violence against the woman, even when she clearly desires it – any pleasure she gets from the act appears to be incidental. How terrible to think it has to be like that!"

"Any man who thinks that way is an idiot," the music professor affirmed with intense fervor. "I don't know how a man could even _enjoy_ being with a woman who wasn't just as ecstatic to be with him. So much of the thrill comes from pleasing _you_." Lowering his lips to her neck, he brushed them teasingly up and down her smooth skin, giving her a series of light, tickling kisses. "And I very much appreciate that you feel the same about pleasing me," he whispered.

Though she giggled and sighed happily at his kisses and words, Marian still turned her eyes aside before she began to speak again, her expression growing a bit self-conscious. "But, yes, I was talking about the other part of that quotation, too," she continued at last. "The, um, the 'longest'. I mean, really, the author and all of his characters are all so concerned with men's _proportions_, which are exaggerated far beyond anything anatomically possible – what's erotic about that? I suppose there's some sort of appeal in that for a man who feels inadequate and wants to fantasize that some sort of difference in his body might be enough to make him a better lover – but not for a woman, not at all!"

As she spoke, her tone had grown more and more imperious and self-assured, and she concluded with a prim nod, quite satisfied with the argument she had presented. And Harold would have simply agreed with her and allowed the conversation to move on – for her analysis of men who possessed that sort of mindset was quite accurate – if it hadn't been for that curious absolute she'd placed in her last sentence. It was a positively _golden_ opportunity for him to tease his outwardly-innocent wife, and he simply couldn't pass it up, especially as she'd been so delightfully bold as to meet him head-on at every pass tonight.

Stretching one arm out to its full length and then letting it fall casually across her shoulders, he inclined his head toward hers, grinning devilishly. "So, women simply don't care about that sort of thing, then? Not at _all_?"

For a split second, Marian's mouth dropped open in shock, and the music professor half expected that she might slap him for pushing this unmentionable matter so far. But she only allowed him to see her off-balance for the briefest of moments before the spirited fire came back into her gaze, and Harold was again impressed by how unwilling she was to admit defeat.

"What's there to care about?" she protested hotly. "An honest woman won't have the experience to know the difference – and if one is with the man whom one loves, then, well, one shouldn't be concerned about things like _that_, anyway!"

It was the sort of response he'd expected – but he had another one in mind. Wrapping his strong arms around her, Harold pulled her back flush against his chest, placing his hands at her waist but then letting them wander slowly down until they rested atop her upper thighs. "Mm-hmm, and pleasing a woman is an art that's defined by what a man_ does_, not what he _is_. But of course there's a difference, and it doesn't require experience with another man to figure that out." He murmured in her ear in his lowest, smoothest tones, and, as he spoke, he allowed just the very tips of his fingers to wander between her legs – he couldn't caress her all that intimately, as she was still clad in the beaded dress, but the hitch in her breathing told him that she'd gotten the message. "My fingers can please you well enough, sure, but you're certainly happy that I have something _more _than that, aren't you – you're not expecting me to just forget all of the things you've whispered in my ear as we've made love – "

"For goodness' sakes, Harold!" But she was so close to him that he could feel her heart racing and her breath coming more quickly, and he was absurdly pleased to know that he'd aroused her with those simple words. And as she calmed down from her initial reaction of frantic embarrassment, she turned around in his arms and leveled her gaze at him, and the honest, longing look in her eyes revealed to Harold that he'd won this round of verbal sparring after all.

Flustered, the librarian tucked a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear with a sweet, sheepish smile. "Well, you _are_ right. I think I – I phrased it poorly. While I maintain that the men in that book have been endowed by their author with too much, I can also reasonably imagine that there _could_ be such a thing as, um, not enough. And – and that has _never_ been a problem here. So."

There was that charming frankness again – she had to remain logical, _had _to reason every discussion through to the end no matter how furiously it made her blush. Harold knew that it was of the utmost importance not to laugh at her in this moment, but he was certain that he'd never been so amused by anything as by what he'd just managed – in the most roundabout manner possible – to make her admit while they were still fully clothed and sitting in the middle of their music room.

"I rest my case," he declared, grinning broadly as he attempted to keep himself from bursting into laughter – which he suspected would not be as well-received at this particular juncture.

Of course, his irrepressible grin could just as easily be interpreted as excessive masculine pride, but he couldn't deny that there was a little of that involved as well – and if she gave him hell for it, he would deserve it entirely.

Sure enough, she rapped her fingers on his chest, breaking into a triumphant grin, as if _she'd_ been the one who'd caught _him _in a trap. "See, see – it _is_ the man who cares the most. You and your ego, you just wanted to make me say it."

"I – " His voice faltered, and he realized that she'd cornered him after all. What comeback could he make when she'd gotten it exactly right? Mostly right, at least. "Well, it wasn't all ego. I was trying to make you blush at least as much as I was trying to get you to say it."

"You've been trying to make me blush all along, though," she laughed. "Ever since you started on about – "

"Jazz and other four-letter words, hmm?"

"_Yes_. Oh, look, now you've done it again!" she exclaimed, hands flying to her cheeks in mild dismay.

"My sweet, seductive, blushing, flapper wife." He ran a finger lightly along a cheek that was colored pink by an adorable combination of Victorian modesty and modern cosmetics. "You are composed of the most delightful contradictions, my dear."

Pressing her hands to his chest, Marian slid right into his lap then, still blushing but her eyes suddenly blazing with desire. "Trying to make me blush... and here I'd concocted this whole plan to see what I could make _you _say and do." She was casually unbuttoning his shirt, tossing his tie aside as she spoke. "Were you trying to take control back from me?" she inquired coyly, running her finger ever so lightly along the bare skin she'd exposed.

That earlier fantasy flitted through his mind again – her painted lips on his skin, wondering where she might dare to leave a mark with them... "I wouldn't say that, exactly. It wasn't my intention to stop any of your – plans."

In response, she simply inclined her head toward his, lips already parting and eyes fluttering shut, her expression dreamy and irresistible. As Harold met her mouth with his own and gave her the deep, thorough kissing that she deserved, his hand slipped right under the high hemline of her dress. He traced a single teasing finger up and down the length of her smooth thigh, and immediately, he could feel her beginning to tremble with lust. Even after their protracted conversation about things that they considered to be distinctly _non_-erotic, that was all it took – she wanted him. She _wanted _him.

More than anything, Harold suddenly needed more proof of that, all the proof he could get, and he gazed directly into those desire-clouded hazel eyes as he let his hand drift higher. They both inhaled sharply as he cupped her through her drawers and felt her heat and dampness even through the layer of fabric – but, though Marian was the one being caressed, it was somehow Harold who groaned first, wanting her too badly for words. Although she didn't moan yet, she _did_ whimper, pressing back against his hand like she couldn't get enough of him, and her writhing in his lap was producing the most exquisitely torturous sensations. As Marian realized this, she let out a soft murmur of approval, and an impish smile lit her face as she began to move more deliberately against him and drew a series of ragged gasps from his mouth as she sent tremors of arousal throughout his body.

Just as he found himself wishing futilely that women's drawers still had those wonderfully convenient split seams so he didn't have to wait one more moment to touch her and make her moan, the librarian surprised him by taking his free hand in her own and pressing it just above the small of her back, where he felt a zipper beneath his fingertips.

"Help me?" she inquired coyly.

Harold couldn't help but break into a grin – most fancy dresses meant dealing with a multitude of tiny buttons, but now he would have her naked in his arms within seconds. "I should have known it would be easy to remove – it _is _a scandalous, modern dress, after all," he managed to joke as he pulled the zipper down.

But if he'd thought for a single second that he might be taking control of the situation, all of that ended the moment that the dress slipped effortlessly from Marian's shoulders. He found himself almost unable to speak at the sudden vision – she'd worn nothing underneath but her drawers, and those were easily slipped off within seconds, leaving her naked in his lap. Her soft, perfectly formed breasts were just inches from his mouth, nipples already hard and tight from arousal, and Harold felt caught up in a sort of euphoric delirium as he wrapped his arms around her slender form and pulled her close to indulge in her delectable charms.

Marian's hands gently, lovingly stroked his hair and face and neck as she held him close, moaning and sighing at his ministrations, and any masculine arrogance he might usually have felt at that melted away in favor of sheer joy that he could bring her such happiness. He'd had it in mind that he was seducing _her_ with his caresses, but as he kissed and tasted her breasts again and again, utterly lost in how soft and sweet she was, it dawned on him that she still had him completely under her power. Even as he kissed his way down her abdomen and lay her back on the couch, he felt consumed by his desire, wrapped up in her beauty and allure, impatient to pay tribute to this Venus who had captivated him so.

"I've wanted this so much," he confessed in a groan as he parted her slick folds with his finger, leaned in to place little kisses on her inner thighs, drew closer and closer to her most sensitive areas and made her quiver with anticipation.

She simply responded in a rush of "_yes_" and "_please_", and on any other occasion Harold might have teased her longer just to delight in her pleading, but right now, he couldn't bear the thought of delaying. At the first touch of his tongue to her wetness, her head lolled back, a shuddering moan escaped her, and he was just as lost as she was.

He cupped her bottom in his hands and held her to him, intoxicated by her moans, her scent, her _taste_. Harold knew how much she loved this particular act, he knew her body so intimately that he could ensure that she was experiencing bliss beyond imagination... And even with Marian completely helpless in his arms like this, even as he took complete control of her pleasure and deliberately drove her out of her mind with delight, he knew that he was still at her mercy tonight. As she approached her climax, she was writhing against him in beautiful desperation, but _he _was desperate, too, wanting to watch her in ecstasy more than anything in the world. It was two weeks since they'd had an empty house and he'd had the freedom to coax uninhibited wails and screams from those lovely lips, but it felt as long as their entire courtship for all of the frustration it had brought him. He _needed _to give her this.

Then finally, finally, her hips rose from the cushion, her back arching, hands tangling in his hair and muscles going rigid as all of the tension in her body built at once and then released, and she howled his name in high, keening cries. As she slowly curled back into herself as the momentary fatigue of climax made her pleasantly lethargic, her legs were trembling and her breath reduced to broken shudders, a few curls escaping from the faux bob she'd crafted and falling sweetly against her cheeks.

Utterly satisfied with her satisfaction – though not _physically_, of course, not when he was the hardest he'd been all night, his pulse throbbing insistently below his belt – Harold sat up and watched her melt against the settee, her face glowing with bliss. As his dear little librarian reclined in a dreamy daze, he stood up and began divesting himself of his clothing, needing to feel her skin on his as soon as he could possibly manage it.

Her eager, appreciative gaze upon his arousal was especially charming tonight, given the conversation that they'd just had – _so much for women not caring about that sort of thing_, he almost teased her. But he didn't get the chance. As soon as he'd shed the last of his clothes, which he'd managed to do rather quickly even without the presence of any helpful zippers, Marian, having evidently recovered her senses and her awareness of her _plans_ for the evening, pulled him eagerly back to the couch and pinned him down with a brilliant grin.

"Do you know what I was thinking when I put this lipstick on?" she whispered as she straddled him and let her fingertips trail all over his chest and abdomen. Leaning down close to him so their naked bodies were pressed together, she pressed a wet love-bite to his neck, and he shivered convulsively in response."I thought of what you'd think when you saw it, and – and I thought that was _exciting_."

Harold laughed hoarsely. "Tell me, then – what am I thinking?"

She smiled, gently stroking the errant brown curls from his forehead. "I was planning to demonstrate, and you can tell me if I get it right."

At that declaration, the professor felt a thrill of lustful anticipation that was almost as powerful as the first time that she'd ever made it clear that she was going to make love to him in this way. He swallowed hard and nodded – his powers of speech had fled.

As Marian trailed teasing little kisses down his body, her curls were tickling him right along with her mouth, first his chest, then his stomach, then his inner thighs. Her hands found him first, stroking, exploring and teasing every little spot that she knew to be extremely sensitive, and even that was almost too much to bear – but then her mouth was caressing him, warm and wet and exquisite, and there was nothing in the world that could match the sheer eroticism of that, both in sensation and in spectacle. Reflexively, Harold's eyes slid shut as she overwhelmed his senses, but he fought to keep them open, because he wouldn't have missed this sight for all the world.

Charmingly, the librarian giggled a little, even at the height of her seductiveness, as she observed her husband's reactions – her prediction about the lipstick had proven _very_ accurate, and Harold could do nothing to hide his excitement. Those painted lips looked every bit as wickedly naughty on him as he'd imagined, and the sight drove him absolutely wild. A mere hour ago, he wouldn't have thought that Marian would have ever dared to wear lipstick under any circumstances, and now _this_... his gorgeous wife was the embodiment of a fantasy that he'd barely been conscious of having. And he allowed himself to be swept up in unspeakable adoration and lust by the soft little moans that she made, the way that she fidgeted and shifted with obvious arousal each time he cried out in return – the way that she looked right into his eyes, glowing with mischievous delight every time she made him surrender a little more of his self-control.

Even after ten years, it was still a staggeringly wonderful thought that Marian would not only do this with him, but that she _liked_ it – how many men could say that about their wives? (Of course, there were probably just as few women who could say something similar about their husbands, he thought with a hint of pride.) She loved him with both clever expertise and sweet, loving generosity, the way that only a devoted, passionate wife could – to think he'd once been foolish enough to believe that novelty was the sole source of excitement in lovemaking!

But those were about the only thoughts he had during the entire blissful interval – the pleasure she was giving him was far too overwhelming to make room for anything else. It was so perfect that he _gladly_ would have let her do this for however long as she pleased. But he didn't want to finish now, not when he'd been waiting to make love to her for what felt like ages – though it had really only been several days since they'd made love, and only about two weeks since they'd been able to do so with the house to themselves. It didn't matter; any amount of time would have been too long, when it came down to it.

"Come _here_," he groaned, tugging at her arms.

Giving him an understanding smile, eyes dark with lustful anticipation, Marian did not waste a moment in sliding back up his body until they were face-to face. As soon as she was back in his arms again, he rolled her beneath him, she wrapped his legs eagerly around his waist, and he found himself pressing right against her entrance, able to feel just how warm and wanting and _wet_ she was for him.

Though he wanted nothing more than to be buried deep inside her as soon as possible, Harold slid into her slowly, enjoying every moment of her reaction. He thought of what he'd teased her into admitting a little while ago, the way that he filled her up completely and perfectly as if they'd been divinely designed to fit together like this – and her responses, the way her eyelashes fluttered at the sensation and her lips formed into a little _o _around beautiful, throaty moans, were quite different from the way she responded to his fingers and tongue. No better or worse, simply _different_, and he adored them all.

At first, he went slowly and deliberately just to delight in her wanton desperation – her moans and sighs of satisfaction as he thrust forward, the little sound of disappointment that escaped her lips when he withdrew. But after a minute or so of this teasing, her small hands found his backside and pressed him firmly, deeply inside, her lips meeting his for a hungry kiss, and he was completely lost, thrusting hard and fast into her tight, wet heat that felt so very heavenly around him.

Before long, Marian's cries mounted and mounted, and so did his own, his rapture spurred on by witnessing hers, by knowing that _he_ was doing this to her. Though he'd been so worked up that he had been rather worried about how long he could last once he began to make love to her in earnest, he soon realized that there was no need to worry about failing to please his darling wife tonight. As they made love, Harold watched her fall into shattering bliss again and again beneath him until finally the building, thrilling wave in his own body grew too powerful to fight back and his climax rushed through him.

Murmuring an incoherent combination of broken syllables, occasionally intermingled with her name, he sank down upon her as the blaze of ecstasy faded into warm contentment, his head buried in the warm crook of her neck. Beneath him, he felt Marian's breathing grow steady and smooth, all the tension melting from her muscles as she basked in the afterglow of her own pleasure. With what little strength he currently possessed, he rolled onto his side to keep from putting too much of his weight on her and nestled her in his arms, possessively and protectively. For the time being, it felt like they'd actually managed to become one – it was sheer bliss.

How long they lay together like this, or whether one or both of them had actually dozed off, he was uncertain. When he regained his senses enough to be aware of what was happening, Harold realized that she was stroking his hair, kissing his forehead. As he thought over what they'd just done, and the way that she was looking at him now, he had the strange feeling that he'd somehow lost a battle, but one that he was not the least bit inclined to win. It was not at all an unpleasant thought.

"Little vixen," he murmured in appreciation, voice still raspy from crying out.

Marian smiled back with an alluring mix of mischief and innocence, dimples forming in her cheeks. "Now what is it, love?"

As he considered how to respond, he drew her hand to his lips, kissing each of her slim fingers one by one. "I'll never get the upper hand on you," he said finally. "You've got me under your spell – there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for you."

"Looks like you like it that way." She tickled his bare leg with her foot, and they both laughed.

"Very much. I'm so lucky," he blurted gracelessly as he gazed back at her, too happy and besotted to be debonair.

"You certainly are," the librarian teased, leaning back into the soft blue cushions of the settee. "But so am I."

Now that he had recovered a few more of his higher faculties, Harold let his eyes travel slowly along her naked form, admiring the aftereffects of their lovemaking. Her faux bob had unraveled almost entirely and her hair now tumbled all around her shoulders, and most of her rouge and lipstick was now replaced by the natural flush of kisses and exertion and ecstasy. It was every bit as erotic of a portrait as she'd presented in her flapper dress, but far, _far_ more intimate.

"I almost feel bad," he said with a chuckle, hoisting himself up to a sitting position. "All that work to do your hair and makeup so beautifully, and I ruined it all..."

The librarian laughed sweetly, shaking her head. "Well, that was why I did it, so I consider this a resounding success. Why, it would have been a shame if you _hadn't_ ruined it!"

That was a point to which Harold would readily concede. "True. As long as you promise you'll do it again sometime – you make the perfect flapper."

"Oh, of course! You don't think that I bought the dress just to wear it once, do you?" As she thought more about what he'd said, her eyes twinkled with amusement. "But I can still be the perfect flapper no matter what I'm wearing, you know. I think you taught me to be one long before there was such a thing!"

Laughing softly, Harold pressed his lips to her dimpled cheek. "I didn't teach you to be anything. You just_ are_."

With a sweet little noise of contentment, Marian kissed him back before pulling herself upright to stretch her long limbs, eyes darting around the mess they'd made of the room in search of some scrap of clothing they could pull back on – especially important as the music room contained no blankets with which they could cover themselves, and hints of the late-autumn chill were seeping into their cozy enclave through the wooden floor.

When her eyes lit upon the glittering light-green dress that was draped over the end table, the librarian frowned slightly. "I suppose that as soon as we have the chance, we should make sure that the dress gets safely upstairs," she said with a sigh. "It's turned out to be more trouble than I anticipated – I hadn't thought about having to be so _careful_ with it."

"With all those pretty beads, the cat'll go after it if we leave it there too long," Harold mused.

Before he'd even finished his sentence, Marian was nodding with a knowing smile. "I didn't even tell you – I thought it would have broken the mood, I suppose, not that you didn't spend a good amount of time breaking the mood on purpose just to tease me! – but she already did, when I was walking down here. It's a good thing that I clipped her nails yesterday, or I might have ended up with scratches on my legs!"

"Yes, and it's a good thing that you chose to forgo stockings – although not only because you might have ended up with a run in them!" he teased, tickling the sensitive underside of her calves and making her fidget and giggle. "No matter how much trouble it causes, that dress is so very worth it, though – even if I _can't_ make love to you in it. That's what I wanted, from the moment that you first stepped in the room tonight, but I knew enough to realize that it's too fine and delicate of a dress for that sort of treatment."

A thoughtful expression on her face, she twisted a lock of his rich brown hair around her finger. "If we go upstairs, I could make up for that disappointment by putting on something that you _can _make love to me in."

He laughed softly, his voice still a bit hoarse. "Oh, darling, believe me, there's _no_ disappointment here, not from having you naked in my arms like that." The music professor's mind was already flooding with a hundred delectable, lascivious images, though, and he simply couldn't resist seizing upon the offer she'd made. "But – but maybe you could wear the sheer black one – "

"With the lace?"

"Mmm, and the garter – "

"I think that can be arranged," she whispered, nuzzling his neck and making him sigh in contentment.

"In the meantime, if you want to cover up – " Grinning, he grabbed his shirt from where it had fallen to the floor and draped it around her shoulders.

"Harold, this looks ridiculous," she chided, though she helped him out by slipping her arms into the sleeves, fidgeting her shoulders until it rested comfortably on them.

The professor shook his head firmly as he fastened the top two buttons. "It's adorable."

Marian giggled. "Oh, you. You'd say that no matter what I wore!"

"Because it's true. _Everything_ you wear is exciting to me in some way. I love you dressed as a fiery, wanton little minx – and I also love you dressed in your regular clothes, as the neat, lovely librarian and mother who is _secretly _a fiery, wanton little minx."

Though his wife blushed pleasantly at his words, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, it's hardly a secret to_ you_ by _now_."

"It feels like discovering a secret every time, though - and that's part of the thrill," he admitted, taking her chin gently between his fingers so he could gaze directly into her eyes. "_Every_ time we make love, I feel as lucky and as proud as if it were the first time you'd ever given yourself to me. You amaze me, Marian."

She cast her eyes downward in humility, but it warmed Harold's heart to see that his wife was beaming. "You give me far too much credit," she demurred, but then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a sweet, ardent kiss that proved her previous statement entirely wrong.

"Now, let's get you dressed, shall we?" the librarian declared when they parted, a statement that sounded incongruously prim and practical considering their current situation. "We can't have you running all through the house entirely in the altogether!"

Harold nearly made a sly retort, but he had to agree that there _was_ something terribly silly-looking about walking around naked for much longer than it took to cross a single room, so he complied without protest. As he located his BVDs among the pile of discarded clothing on the music room floor and pulled them back on, restoring at least a semblance of his own modesty, Harold suddenly found himself voicing his thoughts aloud. "Strange, isn't it – how a woman can wear lingerie, but there's no equivalent for a man, nothing he can wear to let his beloved know that he intends to seduce her?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Marian mused. A mischievous smile lit up her gorgeous features as he sat back down next to her on the settee, and she ran her nimble hands all over his bare torso, exploring the muscular planes of his chest, the contours of his strong arms and shoulders - and making him shiver and stirring the beginnings of his desire all over again when they slipped down his abdomen until they were resting on the line of fine, dark hair just above the waistband of his drawers. "All you'd really have to do is walk in looking like _this_, without a shirt on, and I'd be every bit as entranced as you are when I wear my lingerie for you."

Already, Harold was plotting and planning, trying to imagine the best time to put that advice to the test. "That's good to know, my dear. I'll be sure to try it when you least expect it." Maybe while she was playing the piano sometime, he'd stroll in shirtless and see if he could break her concentration...

"I'll look forward to – whenever I least expect it," she challenged. Then, lacing her fingers with his, she stood up, tugging at his hand. "But why don't we head upstairs now? There's no need to look ahead to the next time when we have all night, and my little black nightdress waiting for us..."

As she turned to leave the room, Marian let go of his hand and kept going, clearly expecting that he would follow after, but Harold could only stare, transfixed, as she walked away, stopping only briefly to pick up her flapper dress from where it lay.

Yes, that dress had made her look gloriously, scandalously bewitching, and he was certainly still excited for her to don the little black number with the lace and garter, but the shirt was a different kind of erotic that he hadn't quite expected – much too big for her, so it kept sliding off her shoulders, but yet just short enough that it couldn't fully cover her bare bottom, giving him the most tantalizing glimpses with each step she took. And in the most primal way, seeing her in that shirt was a powerful reminder that she was _his_.

Realizing that he still hadn't stood up, Marian stopped at the threshold and cast a glance back over her shoulder, one hand clutching at the material that just barely concealed her breasts. "Harold? What are you waiting for?"

In a few quick strides, the music professor rose from the settee and caught her in his arms, pulling her back into the room with an arm around her waist. "Wait," he growled playfully. "I'm not done with you here." Gently tugging the beaded dress from her hands, he tossed it right back onto the end table.

The librarian laughed breathlessly, squirming in his arms as he tickled and nuzzled her. "But – but don't you want – "

He shook his head vehemently against her neck. "_After_. There are plenty of hours in the night, and your mother's not not bringing the kids home until noon."

"Wait, though – wait!" Wriggling free of his embrace, Marian held his hands down to still them and leveled an impish gaze at him when his face fell a little in disappointment. "Well, if we're going to stay here, we might as well make full use of the room, right? We should play some music."

Harold raised his eyebrows in intrigued approval – the music had ended well before they'd gotten around to making love the first time, so they _had_ missed out on that particular experience. "Mmm, good idea. I shouldn't have doubted you for a second."

She walked lightly on bare feet over to the Victrola and restarted the jazz record that they'd danced to earlier – or, at least, _tried _to dance to. But this time, they weren't going to make the slightest pretense of dancing in any less than the most intimate manner, and Harold's heart was already pounding in anticipation as he welcomed her back into his arms.

As the sultry strains of clarinets and saxophones filled the room, Marian slipped into his lap, naked thighs wrapping around his waist, and made him groan shamelessly as she slowly, deliberately writhed against his rapidly returning erection.

"Well, Professor? Are you having wicked, shameless impulses yet?" she whispered, her breath tickling his ear.

Harold gave her a shaky grin, opening the few buttons that he'd haphazardly done up before to reveal her lovely breasts once again, but otherwise leaving his shirt hanging from her shoulders. "I absolutely am. But I don't think we can blame the music, darling – I'm pretty sure it's you."

At that, the librarian let her mouth fall open in mock affront – made even more amusing by the fact that she was currently working his drawers down his legs. "Don't blame me, either!" she exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "I think that the wicked things that _I'm_ feeling are entirely _your_ fault."

"Then it's settled," the music professor declared with glee. "We're terribly, terribly bad influences."

"And thank goodness for that," she breathed. "We'd be missing out on _such_ fun if we weren't."

Immensely amused by her playful statement, Harold leaned back and simply beheld his golden goddess of a wife. Witty and sweet and beautiful and _perfectly _naughty, a man couldn't have asked for anything more in a woman.

And, amazing and delighting him once again, Marian took the initiative to lean down and capture her lips with her own, boldly taking him in hand and stroking him, and he embraced her tightly in return, kissing her deeply and groaning into her mouth.

_Jazz: _The music and its very name seemed to lend a perfect backdrop to the ecstatic, raw sensuality of their embrace.

But despite their behavior, he thought that tonight's events had proven quite conclusively that jazz was no threat to civilization, and had no particular power to compel anybody to abandon all reason in favor of shameless indulgence of carnal pleasures.

After all, the only force that Harold knew of which could exercise _that_ much power over him was better known as Marian – and he couldn't have been happier to give in to _her_ influence.


End file.
